Hockey Night
by Philothei
Summary: It's hockey night in the neighborhood. Tonight Team Mercer is going against the roughest street league in the rink who bring up more than a few nasty surprises, especially for Jack... Pre-Movie, probably a two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

**Summary: It's hockey night in the neighborhood. Tonight Team Mercer is going against the roughest street league in the rink who bring up more than a few nasty surprises, especially for Jack... Pre-Movie, probably a two-shot. **

* * *

When the Christmas holidays set in and the skies above Detroit grew darker and heavy with snow, the whole neighbourhood played hockey.

Troops of kids from aged 13 to thirty poured from doorways and porches, clad in frayed coats and sweatshirts, laden with second hand boots and sticks and the occasion shin pad. Rusty blades were slung over shoulders, hanging by straggling laces as they bumped backs. A few cars rumbled past, engines spluttering through the fresh slush forming along the concrete. The crowds trudged through the thick snowfall as parents stayed tucked in houses, the windows tinted orange with burning lamplight.

The ice rink of the neighbourhood was pretty run down; unsheltered bleachers rotted in the colder weather and the boards were far from secure. Glass windows were a fiction of TV, with only the bleachers blocked by a harsh metal caging. When players changed, the not only had to scramble over the boards _into _the rink; they had to scramble _out _of it too, which made them prone to stray pucks or hooked sticks.

But the ice was smooth and kept that way, which was good enough for all of them.

Teams congregated on the line bench and switched socked feet from boots to skates, hands buried in thick gloves. Familial pre game rituals commenced as an audience of aspiring street stars, bored teens, giggling girls, drug pushers, proud siblings and the odd intrigued parent gathered as the first teams launched themselves into the rink.

The Mercers always played as a team; a deadly team, a powerful team. They knew they were a good group but they weren't arrogant about it. They took these games as seriously as everyone else, and played to improve themselves more than to impress. If you could beat the Mercer boys, you were a pretty damn good team.

Bobby, the eldest, was a fireball. He played in the affiliate team for some major league squad, but he was a veteran on home ice. He caused fireworks wherever he was on the rink with legal and illegal hits, always arguing that on amateur ice, anything went. He had a vicious shot too, with more than a few goalie teeth in his trophy collection. His size didn't deny him any targeting from the bigger players, nor did it compromise the force of his own hits. He was a dangerous player – he was famous for it.

Angel played a different game. He was a strong both in defence and as a forward. His huge frame made him a careful player, less erratic than his elder brother. He planned his moves and observed the game well, a trait important in his double life as a hustler. He knew when to crash an offending player into the boards so his teammate could steal the puck, and where to move when one of his brothers was shut in. He played a key role too as an aggressor, defending not the goal but his teammates. His physical presence on the ice had saved their asses more times than they could count after wins – and dirty play.

Jerry was a massive defensive importance to the Mercer game. He was strong and steadfast, enduring lengthy games without leaving the ice once. Whereas others treated hockey as more of a sprint game, Jerry looked at it as more of a marathon – he easily outplayed his own brothers on the rink and new when to exert his energy into a strong hit. He was also a peacekeeper between the Mercer team and their opponents, realizing when perhaps a hooking or a dirty cross-check was becoming more a threat than a hockey game. He stopped the team getting their asses shot.

Then there was Jack. Jack was the newest on the ice and at only 17; a rookie on the ice as far as the other teams were concerned. The boys who played against the Mercers had done so for years gone by and still saw Jack as the new kid. But he played damn well. He was the star shooter of the Mercer team, known for a quick hand at dangling and his slick shots that moved like lightning into the back of the fraying net. Often he'd circle the edges of the game, allowing Bobby and Jerry to draw the game to the opposition zone in a cluster before Angel tossed him a free puck and allowing him to flick it past the tender. He'd zoom into the game from nowhere and score a quick goal, a trait which often tailed him with harsh attacks from their opponents. Jack avoided confrontation at all costs and his brothers allowed him that much by steamrolling anyone who made a move on the kid with a high stick or a trip.

It was often Green who found himself in goal for the Mercers, although he was made the target of much roughing as a result. The tenders, Green would argue, were supposed to be defended by their teammates, not abandoned to the wrath of the furious opposition. "Grow a pair, Green," was the often reply, as he would dab at another cut on his ravaged lip. The nature of street ice hockey and the lack of proper goalie equipment often had Green doubling as an extra defenseman – however, the Mercer boys often played one man short against their rivals, as though an extra player would ruin the ebb and flow of their smooth game.

It was intoxicating to watch. Each brother knew well his role within the team and as a player. It was during a game that Green found himself, transfixed on the 30th minute of a supposed 20 minute period, watching the boys against an unfamiliar team one cold December evening. The Mercers wore their unintentionally matching black sweatshirts versus this team's multitude of coloured coats and were 2 goals up – the game was getting rough as they looked the close the game.

"Up on your right, Bobby!" Angel called from the opposition's zone, clearly offside yet not prepared to move as his eyes carefully watched Bobby skate along centre ice.

Bobby glanced up before flicking the puck to his open left, where Jerry was quick to push past one of the red forwards to claim the black disc. Green grinned as Jerry edged between the frantic reds, his skate strong against their flimsy attempts at pursuit. Angel dashed an incoming red to his ass with a 'stray' stick as he went to clear the space for a pass to Bobby. Angel was instantly swept into the boards in retaliation near the line bench thanks to the reds' biggest player. He aimed a tidy kick in Angel's calf with his boot.

"That's for your offside hit, punk," the guy growled as Angel leaped to his blades.

"Back up, asshole!" Bobby called as he stormed up the zone, gloves nearly off –

When in that moment Jack came swooping from the Mercer zone, stick low to the ground. He flew into the empty space the big ass red player had been defending, before his move on Angel. Jerry shredded the piece across the ice towards his youngest brother and watched as Jack swerved his way through the defence line, the reds too stunned by the quickly developing violence between their biggest player and the notorious Bobby Mercer at centre ice. They barely noticed the sudden appearance of the gangly shooter in their zone, too slow to react to the incoming threat of a sharpshooter -

The tender stood no chance.

Bobby pulled his glove back on and grinned in pre-celly as Jack skipped the puck over the cracked pads of the red goaltender, Angel's planned antics working once again in their favour as distraction. The reds' heads dreamily spun around as the tendy slammed his stick onto the ice in frustration, mouth open. Jack circled the net and the bleachers shook with applause. A shy grin broke out on his face and Jerry slammed into him, gripping the kid in a hug.

"Yeah!" Green whooped from his empty zone, "That's what I'm talkin' about, Jackie!"

Bobby and Angel skated their way towards their brothers and enveloped each other in a grinning, laughing, mobile mob of Mercer, edging towards Green as their opposition began pointing sticks and scratching blades into the ice.

"You should be a director, Angel," Green quipped as the brothers released their youngest charge, his hair now ruffled and static, "These little shows you make on the ice…"

"You know what they say, Green," Angel grinned, dark eyes shining as he reached to slap his tendy's shoulder, "Step one, distract; step two, attack."

"S'lucky we got our little sniper here, huh?" Bobby smiled, punching Jack lightly on the arm, "I reckon it's cause he's using my stick. It's a damn good stick."

Jerry spluttered. "Bobby, that's the stick you lost with in your first league game. The only good that stick ever did for you is when you got it up that forward's –"

"Oh God," Jack cringed, holding the wooden stick at arm's length. Green laughed warmly and regarded how much the kid had come along since he'd first arrived at the Mercer household. Of all the kids Green had seen come and go at Evelyn's during his friendship with Bobby, Jack had seemed like the biggest challenge, the hardest nut to crack. And yet, here he was, four years on, bruises healed and scars faded, a genuine smile on his face as he mastered a game he'd come to love.

"And to think you couldn't even skate when I first met ya, Jackie," Green thought aloud, staring at the beanpole of the boy. Jack gave a half-smile and dropped his gaze to the floor as the four men proudly considered the kid for what he'd become.

"Hey," shouted an unfamiliar voice from the emptying line bench. The reds were storming towards their cars, utterly defeated by a five man team. The voice came from a huge chunk of a guy, whose shoulders were twice the width of any normal street player they encountered. Angel stiffened immediately and eyed the figure up and down; Jack bowed his head a little, eyes locked on his skates; Bobby glared across the ice, subconsciously shifting so he was in front of his teammates, stick out in front of him; Jerry coughed, eyeing his brothers nervously before speaking up.

"Yeah," he replied the call, and Green watched tensely as the guy eyed each of the Mercers with a cruel grin.

"Got time for one more game?" the guy droned, leaning over the boards, "We got a few lines back here who wanna go against the famous Mercer team."

Jerry didn't even look back at his teammates. He sensed trouble. They all did. "I dunno, man, it's gonna be dark soon," he pointed at the sky, leaning casually on his stick, "Weather's settin' in too. "

"Come on," the guy pushed. Jack looked nervously back at Green, eyes wide. Green smiled back, though the hairs on the back of his neck stood up too. "Floodlights'll come on soon, right? Not scared of a little snow?"

Jerry sniffed. He looked back at Angel, then Green, then Jack then held his gaze on Bobby. He gave a curt nod.

"Alright," agreed Jerry, "Give us twenty."

The guy grinned devilishly and turned to the line bench. It was filled with a group of unfamiliar players, each clad in a crude attempt at team jerseys. They were a cold, dark blue, splattered with red stains and marks. Dried blood.

"What the fuck…" exclaimed Angel – ten of the biggest guys Green had ever seen lined the bench, each eyeing the Mercer brothers with greedy expressions.

"What do they think it is, fucking fight club?" murmured Bobby. That raised alarm bells for Green – if Bobby was worried about a hockey game, they should all be worried about a damn hockey game. They Mercers studied the line bench – these guys looked more like league players, closer Angel's size than anyone else's. Even the remaining crowds on the bleachers eyed them warily, as though they didn't quite belong.

"Bobby," Jack's quiet voice piped up, and the eldest brother turned with a harsh gaze, "Bobby I know those guys."

"What?"

"I lived for a couple of months in the neighbourhood they played in," he continued in a low voice. Angel and Jerry had turned to listen, arms crossed, "They play rough. Real rough. They used to play for one of the big drug guys as a kinda betting con – he'd tell 'em to win or lose, or they'd bet on how many bones they could break in one game. This is really far north than their usual field, Bobby. It ain't a good idea…" He trailed off, suddenly ashamed of his outburst.

Bobby's hard gaze softened, and he squeezed Jack's arm. "Don't worry, Jackie. They're just like any other team – they're just a little meatier than usual."

"A little," scoffed Angel, earning a searing look from Jerry.

Jerry edged closer to Bobby and Jack, his voice low. At the line bench, some of the big guys' supporters, or posse or whatever had started to turn up, a wild and noisy gang. "Look, Jackie. You don't gotta play. Especially if you know some of 'em, it can be real –"

"No, I'm playing," Jack admonished, snapping his gaze to Jerry, "I'm just saying. They're a dirty team. And there's only five of us. We could do with a line change, maybe…"

"All right, all right," Bobby settled, "I'll see if I can call in a few favours. Angel, get your girl's brother here, I've seen him play before and he can get nice n' tough. Jerry, any chance you can get some of your buddies here?"

Green allowed the conversation to flit by as he eyed the youngest Mercer. The boy's eyes were wide as he stared at the bench, his gloved right hand scratching numbly at the scarred flesh of his left; a nervous habit unbroken by the Mercer family. He seemed to stare at one of the team in particular, shuddering in the sharp wind as his scratching started faster, his breathing quicker…

"Jack," Green whispered. The kid's head snapped around. The scratching ceased. "You okay, man?"

He pulled his sleeve down quickly and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah I'm fine. Gonna go get a bottle of water from the car. You want one?"

"A shot of whiskey'll go down better before this," Green murmured.

"You're tellin' me," Jack whispered back, joining his brothers as they skated towards the bleachers.

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**Please review :) **


	2. Chapter 2

**The response I was not expecting!  
Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and followed, I'll try and get back to you this weekend **

**On to what you all came for…**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Also, apologies for the lack of/ pretty bad hockey knowledge. **

Twelve monsters of men lined the boards, eyeing the Mercer team from glinting eyes and smirking darkly.

They were huge. Tall, wide, heavy-looking; the smallest must have had 20 pounds on even Angel.

Green would admit, were fuckin' scary.

Green watched the Mercer boys as they calculated their opponents. Bobby and Angel skated along the length of the rink, marking their territory; Jerry seemed to take a too-relaxed position near the bleachers, talking to some of the guys who'd come to 'help 'em out'; Jack hovered around the goal near Green, occasionally pulling at his sleeve and ghosting his hand over the fresh scratches.

For the life of him, Green couldn't work this one out. It was obvious Jack knew of these guys. But Bobby would know if Jack had a history with 'em, and if he did know, he wouldn't keep him here playing. Hell, he'd send the kid packing back to their Ma for plate of peach cobbler and a mug of hot chocolate.

Bobby had practically raised the kid with his brothers since his arrival at Miss Evelyn's six years ago, coming to know what Jack could cope with and what pushed him over the edge. Green remembered Bobby hauling the squirt into the house by the ear on numerous occasions, the half full cigarette packets overflowing from the trash can, the banged up knuckles from the punches thrown at whoever went near Jack. But he also remembered the softer voice Bobby used around the kid, the tender hand he'd rest on Jack's shoulder, the reassuring pep talks after a rough day or night. There were no secrets between the two.

Except, Green realized as Jack hung back from the bench, eyes glued to the ice and back hunched over, maybe there was…

"You guys ready to play?" Jerry called. One of his work friends, Tommy, flipped himself over the boards. He was a solid player, a traditional player like Jerry, but he could pull one hell of a punch. This seemed to be the case for all the players the Mercers had pulled together for the game, even Jack's skinnier buddies; they all seemed to provide a physical presence as well as skill maybe as a warning shot to their opponents. Hell, they needed it now they were apparently playing Detroit's deadliest.

The apparent leader of the south-side team, a bulky guy of about Angel's age with crooked teeth and cut-up lips leaped onto the ice, stick ready. "You fuckin' bet."

"Jesus," Green muttered, and Jack skated up to the blue line.

"Someone's gonna get killed," Jack called over his shoulder, eyes worryingly wide.

"What's the plan, Bobby?" Jerry mused.

Bobby circled the neutral zone, taunting the opposition with a sly grin. "We're winging it, Jerry."

"Let's finish this chit-chat, ladies," Captain Crooked demanded, pulling a puck from the pocket of his pants, "I came here to play some fuckin' hockey."

Bobby's lip curled back and he slipped into his position at centre ice. "You picked the wrong damn neighbourhood, asshole."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Jack had never in his life played such a dirty game of hockey.

He knew it was a mistake sticking in the rink. He remembered their play well from his short months in their home neighbourhood, a few foster homes before he'd ended up with Ma. His foster father's son, Andrew, would take him down to the rink after school to watch this team play, watching in awe as they threw their opponents into the cold fences of boards and swung their sticks around like they were war weapons. They got a kick out of the violence more than the play and dominated the area. They were known then as the Detroit Death Wings – Bobby would die of laughter if he knew that, probably getting them all shot in the process - and Jack would sit through their games with less adrenaline and more pure fear.

Andrew would assure him that they were good guys as long as you weren't on their bad side. He'd introduced Jack to the team and they'd sat with him as Andrew practiced with his dream team. He recognized some of the players now, turning his head from their eye line as they game went on.

Jack had ended up on their bad side back during his time as Andrew's kid brother, and he probably still was high on the hit list. No matter how much Andrew praised their play ethic and we-watch-our-brothers'-backs attitude, it seemed pretty obvious to Jack they just wanted to kill whoever looked at them funny - let alone someone who got one of their buddies into a shitty situation.

He remembered the endless nights of fear and anxiety he'd endured after he left the horrors of that neighbourhood, the guilt and regret for doing what he had done to Andrew. He felt sick looking at them now, remembering how he'd tortured himself with images of what these guys would do to him if they found out who he was, what he'd done to their teammate…

And now, he was playing against them on the ice. Sick joke if there ever was one.

The game had taken a turn for the worse for the brothers. They were three down and stuck with one goal, thanks to Bobby's breakaway as the Death Wings had turned their attention to beating the shit out of Angel for a low hook on their vet player. Green had taken more pucks to the face in the last thirty minutes than he had in the last twelve years of playing tendy for the Mercers, and was mourning an incisor that rested in his palm. Jerry was out of breath and exhausted, unusual for his standard style of play. Bobby was red with rage, his tactics and play all but mutilated by the force and size of these assholes. He was suddenly aware of the jibes that the league had softened him, and his old rough behaviour was coming back to haunt him. He'd dropped his gloves three times and had the cuts and bruises to show for it.

As for Jack, he'd spent more time on his ass than on his feet. On a few occasions he'd found himself at the receiving end of a particularly nasty fore check, sending him flying into the boards. Once or twice he'd kissed a high stick with his nose. They'd figured he was their best shooter – and they were doing their damnedest to shake him out of play.

"Shit sticks the lot of them," Bobby growled as he studied Jack's bloody nose, "They ever played a real fucking game in their lives? Lemme see," he ordered and grabbed Jack's chin, lifting it high. "Broken?"

Jack batted the hand away, glancing at the opposition. They were hovering at the centre, flicking the puck between them. "Its fine," he muttered, dabbing at the blood with his sleeve. "I told you they played rough. "

"Do they realize it's an ice rink, not a damn boxing match?"

"I ain't even gonna say I told –"

"Can it, Fairy."

Angel drifted across their zone; one eye sealed shut by dried blood and swelled flesh. "Tommy's out for the count, Bobby. Took a hard one from their tender and didn't stop playing."

Bobby cursed and looked towards their emptying bench. The bleachers were full of crowds now, the evening inviting more curious onlookers to watch this unpredicted game. "Who's left now?"

Jack switched off as they went off on tactic talk, wiping his upper lip of runny blood. His gaze fell on the Death Wings' bench. They were watching the ice intently, chirping each other and some members of the crowd. They were grinning ear to ear, all of them. Of course they were – they were three goals up on one of the best amateur teams in Detroit. They were fucking loving today.

"Bring Williams in, man," Bobby said tightly. The crowd were growing impatient, realizing how cold the evening was growing when the adrenaline wasn't flowing. The sun was setting somewhere behind the clouds and the lights were about to switch on. Crowds grew even wilder at night –

"Jackie, stop fuckin' day dreaming man!" Jerry called.

Jack shook his head and saw Bobby turn towards him, puck at his feet. The black disc came straight for him, milliseconds after the puck had hit the ice.

He recognised this play – it was an attempt to confuse their opponents. Quick play, tight passes. A Mercer trademark. Jack made out as if he were about to career up the left wing, drawing the opposition towards him – at the last second before he hit the blue line, he traversed across the ice, spinning 180 and making a quick pass to the advancing Angel.

Jack allowed himself to grin as the crowd cheered, the familiar play always popular. It was worth the knee-skinning back check he received as a result.

Williams, one of Bobby's league buddies slid behind the net as Angel made for the area, and Jack slowed as the surrounding players left the neutral zone. Angel was quickly pounced on by the Death Wings defence, but Williams met him for the puck. He made a searching glance for friendly players as he was swarmed by the much larger opposition. He was too shut in for a wraparound, the usual tactic at this point.

Bobby charged through the enclosing players. Jack watched from the emptying neutral zone as the man edged between hefty skaters to Williams –

When the puck came scooting past post, straight towards Jack who stood unguarded at the blue line.

"Let's go, Jackie!" Jerry called. Jack led the puck up the ice, Jerry there now to block any checks from behind and Angel, Bobby and Williams there to slow any defensive moves – it was Jack versus the tender as he advanced up the zone, dangling the puck expertly with the battered stick, blood dripping onto the ice as he skated closer, closer –

He took a shot, grinning as the puck went high over the surprised tendy's shoulder, the rink lights flashing on and the bleachers exploding in goal celly –

When the mother of all body checks from his left had him careering into the boards by the death wings bench, skates high in the air and head buried in the hard panels.

Pain tore through his ribs and shoulder as he curled up, a strangled noise escaping his throat. The bleachers were reaching a crescendo as a fight broke out in the Death Wings' goal line. Jack flickered open his eyes, squinting in the harsh beams of the flood lights. A

A few of the Death Wings' players poked their heads over the boards to look at the broken kid at their feet. Realizing he wasn't completely dead, they leaned back again, watching the fight unfold in front of them.

Except one head.

Jack blinked up at the face, his heart sinking. He swallowed as he reached up to cover his eyes, the gaze and lights too harsh, too ripping, too scary. A leather-strapped watch hung loose on the gloveless wrist that hovered over the boards.

Andrew's icy gaze bore into his bloodied face, recognition sweeping over him.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

**Eight Years Ago, Detroit**

"Hurry up Jackie, we're gonna miss the bus!"

Jack scampered as quietly as he could down the stairs, school bag tight on his shoulders. The laces of his boots were undone and like snakes slithered down the thin carpet of the steps. On the last two his feet tangled in their necks, nearly tossing him into the banister –

"Jesus, kiddo, I said hurry up, not fall down," Andrew whispered, righting the shrimp with two hands beneath the shoulders. "Want me to do the laces?"

Jack nodded and the boy kneeled in front of him. Jack glanced nervously up the stairs, wondering if the noise had woken the man. He tensed as the bedroom door creaked – but nothing happened. No flying glass bottle, no scraping shout of warning.

"We'll have to teach you to do this right one day, 'kay kiddo?" Andrew promised. He was tall, much taller than Jack, taller than the man too. He was only fifteen, but he was really tall. That's probably why the man didn't go after him so much, Jack decided.

The bedroom door creaked again and Jack's head snapped round, eyeing the landing wildly. His hand flew to his arm and his stubbed nails tore desperately at the torn flesh, scratching scratching scratching -

A hand on his inflamed arm had him hauling his terrified eyes to Andrew again, and he couldn't help but let his lower lip shudder.

"Jack," Andrew said softly, face calm, "Don't worry about my dad. He's just gettin' over his little problem, and then he'll be okay, okay? You won't have to be scared here anymore. Don't be scared."

Jack nodded, familiar with Andrew's promises.

They just never seemed to work out.

"Okay," Jack replied wanly.

"Okay," Andrew rose to his feet and checked the leather watch on his wrist. "Shit, we better get a move on. Bus'll go without us. Got everything, Jackie?"

Jack nodded and closely followed Andrew out of the house, closing the front door with a gentle click.

**xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx**

**Oh the (bad) mystery… **

**Please review! **

**All the best **


	3. Chapter 3

**First of all, a HUGE thank you for all the reviews! I've replied to everyone I can, and all you guests – you're awesome. **

**Secondly – the two-shot plan didn't quite work out. I don't know if I should be apologizing or not… **

**Disclaimer: (mumbles) n'mine. I said not mine. (grumbles)**

** xXxXxXxXxXxXx**

Green watched in open-mouthed horror Jack's high-speed crash into the boards as his shot slammed the puck into the goal. He landed on his side, hard, his shoulder jarring underneath his weight. The boards shuddered as he stopped suddenly, head first. He instantly curled his head into his free arm, his right still unmoving after his awkward fall. The bleachers shook with uproar and post-goal celebration, and both sides on the ice turned to pounce on each other.

The lights around the rink flashed on, lighting the stage for the bloody fight that had broken out.

The Mercer's goaltender shuffled towards the neutral zone, eyes locked on Jack as the brothers and a particularly pissed Williams tore into their chosen opponent. The bench inhabitants had stood to look over at the kid's limp carcass on the ice, morbid curiosity getting the better of them.

"He bleeding?" One of them asked, focussed more on the fight than the pale kid at their bench.

"Naaah," another replied, giving the team permission to divert their attention, "No blood, no problem, right?"

Green growled at the comment, making towards his fallen teammate. He glanced again at the bench, the few opposition that were cheering their buddies on the ice –

All except for one.

One of the kids had their eyes staring intently at Jack over the boards, brows knitted in confusion. He was tall and broad, like the rest of his team; but he had a kind of tightness around his shoulders, different to his relaxed –and mildly entertained friends on the bench - reflected in his knuckle-cracking grip with which he held his stick.

Green made for Jack's side faster as he saw the kid stir a little. His goalie gear made it awkward, the bulky shin pads restricting his movement that it felt like an eternity before he reached Jack –

Who's eyes were wide open, staring fearfully back at the guy who remained still gazing down at him. Jack's terrified face was enough to shred at Green's temper.

Green had watched Jack grow with Bobby, Jerry and Angel, and he remembered all too well the first couple of years when all they had to work with was a wide-eyed kid, too broken and scared to do more than tiptoe around them. The first time Green had met Jack, the squirt stared at the ground the entire time as if he hoped the aged pattern of the carpet would rip open and offer him a hole to sink into. It hurt all of the Mercers to have a shrimp of a child so petrified all the time. Hell, it made _Green _want to go to the nearest confessional and list all of his sins just to clear his name of anything that could have caused Jack's undeniable dread of being around them.

It was the same expression of helpless fear that made Green wonder what exact history the kid had with this hockey team that had him so fucking scared.

He launched himself on his shin pads the last few feet, breaking the eye contact between the pair as he leaned defensively over Jack. "How you doing down here, Jack?" Green asked.

Jack blinked up at him, blood still trickling out of a nostril. "Green?"

"Yeah man," Green smiled, giving Jack a once over. He didn't dare touch him. The Mercers would be pissed off bad enough without his interference with their baby brother. "Oh yeah, nice goal kid. They weren't expecting that."

Jack grinned, although it didn't reach his eyes. He avoided looking past Green's head, still cradling his head with his undamaged arm. "Damn, I think I popped my shoulder," he muttered, wincing as he tried to move his crushed shoulder.

"Jack!"

Both men on the ground looked towards the voice – Bobby ushered towards them, a large slash down the side of his face, blood pouring at an alarming rate down the sleeve of his Red Wings jersey. Green immediately moved away from Jack, recognizing Bobby's tight jaw and narrowed eyes.

He was pissed. The floored captain of the opposition was testament to Bobby's wrath as he moaned at centre ice, his stick broken in two. Green backed up without hesitation.

"I'm sorry, Bobby," Jack said immediately, relaxing a little as his eldest brother sunk to a crouch beside him.

Green turned his head towards the still-staring opponent on the bench. The guy was close to Angel's age, though his face spoke for years of… Of something. His dark eyes were bagged underneath, his skin marred by faint scars and scratches. He'd seen some shit, the goalie could read that immediately.

But the way he stared at Jack – damn, that riled Green up.

"The fuck you lookin' at, punk?" Green snapped.

The guy twitched and glared at Green. "Fuck off back to your net, unless you want a stick up your –"

"Back it up, Donegal," one of the guy's teammates warned.

"You hearin' this, man?" Donegal asked, torn between defending himself further and staring at the defenceless Jack.

Bobby looked up at this, suddenly aware of how close they were to the opposition bench. "Reel it in, smartass, or get on the ice and then say it to him," Bobby looked down again at his kid brother. "Green, help me get him up. We need to get him away from these asshats."

xXxXxXxXxXxXx

Jack could not describe the relief that coursed through him as he was finally dragged away from the scrutiny of the Death Wings' bench, now under the watchful eyes of Bobby and Green.

"Christ, Jackie-O," Bobby puffed, "Your certainly packin' away a few pounds on your beanpole. Green could do with some tips."

Green groaned and readjusted Jack's uninjured arm. "Come on, Mercer. Say it to me on the ice," he mimicked.

Bobby snorted. "Wasn't my best words, admittedly," he offered, his whole body shaking from the adrenaline of the fight.

The scrap eventually broke down behind them, the rink now splattered with blood and gloves and chunks of broken stick. The sky was black and low with dark clouds, a light snow starting to fall on the crowd. Jack didn't think the game would last much longer; most of the players were battered, bruised and exhausted. Some of the bleachers were already looking empty under the falling light.

God, Jack wanted to go home. He wanted to curl up in his warm bed after a hot shower, cosy in the warm house with a mug of hot coffee and Evelyn's familiar perfume lingering in the air.

Right now, the same glare from the Death Wings' bench was doing enough to deep freeze the marrow in his bones.

Bobby helped him over the side of the boards and onto the bench. He eyed him up and down, surveying the damage. "How's the head, kiddo?"

The lack of joking in Bobby's voice set the tone for his serious concern. Damn, it must have been a hard hit. "Hurts," Jack admitted, "I'm good Bobby."

Bobby scoffed. "Don't give me that shit. I had to carry your ass to this bench, I don't do that often. Like Hell you're 'good'."

Jerry whistled in the offensive zone, his own arm moving tightly after his one on one. He waved Bobby across, the Captain, stick-less, behind him.

"Green," Bobby ordered, wiping away the running blood from his cheek with a sleeve, "Make sure the kid doesn't pass out or something."

Green muttered something under his breath. Making sure Bobby was a safe distance away, Green edged towards Jack, leaning far over the boards. "Jack, you know I saw what was going on over there, with that guy."

Jack's eyes widened and he stared dead ahead. He automatically reached for his wrist, scratching lightly through his slush-coated sleeve.

"I need to know now if there's any deal between you and these guys. Anything that'll cause any trouble," Green continued. Jack risked a glance at the Death Wings' bench. He was still there. "I need to know, kid. If there's anything you want to tell me, or Bobby, or Angel or Jer, you should do it now."

Jack swallowed, rubbing his wrist a little harder. A thousand suppressed memories swam at his stream of consciousness, images which swam in front of him like lingering nightmares.

"It's all good, Green," Jack promised, jolting his shoulder back into place, "It's all okay."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

**8 Years Ago, Detroit**

Jack sobbed loudly as he cowered beneath the kitchen table, his entire arm hanging limply in his lap. The room was cold and dark, the remains of light bulbs in shards across the kitchen floor. Remnants of a smashed whiskey bottle lay amongst them, coated in quickly cooling blood.

Jack rubbed his bloodied jaw on his shoulder, grimacing as the glass chips still embedded in his skin sunk deeper. He quivered as a crash and stream of cursing flowed from upstairs. He bit his lip, hard to stop himself making any more noise. _Stay quiet,_ he thought, squeezing his eyes closed,_ stay quiet stay quiet stay quiet._

But Jack _had _been quiet. He'd stayed quiet all night, watching TV silently as Andrew disappeared for more hockey practice and the man slunk out to do whatever he did. Jack stayed put on the couch, as he was told; watched the cartoons and then the repeats without touching the remote Or-So-Help-Me-God, as he was told; hadn't touched the oven or the taps or gone near the door or phone, as he was told.

But even still, when the man returned home before Andrew to a sleeping Jack on the sofa, alone in the pitch black, he fell into a fit of rage so terrifying that next door's deaf-n-dumb dog had started barking.

The seconds had merged into moments of flashing pain and fear. Jack was wrenched off the couch by his arm, and a searing pain shot up to his shoulder as a loud pop had him screaming in white hot agony.

"Shut up!" The man slurred, shoving his boot into Jack's ribs as the kid curled up on the filthy carpet, a curdled groan escaping his throat. The man charged towards the cupboard under the TV, punching a hole in the screen as he reached in for a nearly empty bottle of whiskey. "Shut up shut up shut up!"

Jack rolled onto his back, drawing his useless arm onto his stomach. He couldn't help but allow short breaths and throttled sobs escape his lungs as he tried not to pass out. He barely noticed the man approach him in the darkness, the cap of the bottle discarded across the room.

"Get the fuck up you stupid fucking kid," the man hissed, jabbing mercilessly at Jack's side with his boot. "I said get up!"

That night disappeared in a blur of broken bones, smashed glass and dripping blood. Jack awoke hours later, curled beneath the kitchen table in a pool of pain. In the distance a gunshot fired and car tires screeched. A dog barked loudly and an argument filtered into the kitchen. Sounds of the world spinning as Jack waited in his hiding place, shaking.

It must have been hours before the front door creaked open again.

Jack risked moving his throbbing head, squinting in the dim light of the street lamp as it trickled through the doorway.

Andrew tiptoed into the kitchen, his boots crunching over the layer of smashed glass on the tiles. The door stayed open, swinging in the silent breeze.

"What the…" Andrew muttered, cracking the emptiness Jack felt like a lightning bolt. A desperation for comfort despite his fear of this boy's loyalty to his own father overcame him, and he tried to edge out from beneath the table.

"Help – " Jack spluttered, his throat ragged and dry. He groaned and turned his head into his arm, feeling the loose limb laying uselessly beneath him.

"Jack?" Andrew whispered, urgently. He bent over in front of the kitchen table and stared down at Jack, lamp-like eyes wide with alarm. He fell to his knees, locking gaze with the broken child in front of him. "Oh Christ…"

Within seconds Andrew was pulling Jack into his arms, the door still open and swaying gently. "Oh God, Jack, I'm so sorry. He doesn't mean it –"

"Hurts," Jack groaned, his arm still unmoving and loose.

"It's okay, kiddo. I'm here now. Jesus, what the fuck did he do…"

"Please, Andy," Jack begged. He looked up at the older boy through his bruised and swollen face, dried blood and unwelcome tears meeting on his cheeks. Andrew looked down helplessly at the child in his lap.

"My dad will be okay, Jack," Andrew promised again, "I promise, Jackie. Just wait a little longer. I'll fix you up, I'll look after you. Until he gets better…"

Jack allowed the blissful blackness of the inside of his eyes to swallow him up again, Andrew's words curdling in his ears.

**One more chapter! **

**Love. **


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